


between light and shadows

by cardinal__sin



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: (past/referenced), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Angus McFife lives, Child Death, Everybody Lives, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Magical Illness, Mild Gore, Near Death, Near character death, Sickfic, Zargothrax lives, and the child death is for a dead baby, ask to tag, mentioned twice and in a p straightforward manner so. yeah. dead baby ahead, mild gore tag is for the implied/referenced character deaths, otherwise, post-terrorvortex, theyre p graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 18:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28799664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin/pseuds/cardinal__sin
Summary: "The fever did not break. Ralathor kept vigil by Angus’ bedside for more than thirty hours, and the beep of the machines and the drip of the infusions did not cease. Angus’ fever was climbing higher, if anything, and after the first twenty-four hours, it wasn’t only in Ralathor’s eyes that he appeared weak and fragile.“He’s wasting away,” the Hootsman remarked grimly.“Look at the hollows of his cheeks. He looks like a fucking skull. This isn’t natural.”"or: Angus McFife succumbs to a mysterious illness. It's up to Ralathor to find a way to heal him - but what if he isn't powerful enough to do it?
Comments: 8
Kudos: 9





	between light and shadows

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is based on [this](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/post/638660666578911232/hc-time-one-day-hoots-and-ralathor-find-angus) anon ask :) it's different from it, but it was still inspired by it.
> 
> title translated from the unheilig song "zwischen licht und schatten" - meaning the same thing

The DSS Hootsforce was, for the most part, quiet. After months of living aboard the submarine, the constant hum of the engines and the odd metallic clang travelling through the pipes became nothing more than background noise, a soft soundtrack to daily life. The crew itself wasn’t particularly noisy either, and the bridge was always shrouded in silence save for the odd command or request spoken aloud.

Ralathor’s office – not to be mistaken for his cabin, although he slept about equal amounts in both rooms – was situated near the bridge, close enough that he could be alerted in an emergency but far enough that no noise could bother him. He was going through their accounts and expenses, trying to find budget for repairs that would eventually have to be done on the ship. He wanted to make the most of the few hours he could get with the least amount of interruptions.

The Hootsman and Angus were _out questin’_ , as the young prince had put it. Ralathor didn’t even pretend to remember where they were currently, but they would return, and then he would be forced to socialize, so. It was better to get as much done as possible in their absence. It wasn’t that he disliked them, if anything he considered them close friends, but even that could not cancel out his general aversion of people. Humans were complicated and exhausting and it was much, much easier to just stay in his room and do actually meaningful work.

Correction: it would be easier if his comm didn’t decide to go off in the middle of a long line of calculations. With a frustrated sigh, Ralathor picked up the device and accepted the call. The source of the call was labelled _Hangar_ , and the crewmember’s uniform confirmed this. He looked frazzled and when he spoke up, he sounded out of breath.

“Sir,” he said, “we have an emergency down here. Please come as quickly as you can.”

Before Ralathor could have asked what the emergency was, the call disconnected. Ralathor didn’t waste a moment with pointless hesitation, just discarded the accounts and exited the office. If it really was an emergency, he knew he had to be there as soon as possible.

A good portion of the crew was already gathered in the hangar, crowding together around something Ralathor could not identify. He called for them to make way and pushed himself through the crowd, stumbling to the centre of it.

He did not know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t anything close to what he was seeing. The Hootsman was kneeling on the ground, his axe and Angus’ hammer tossed aside. He was holding the young prince in his arms.

Angus was barely conscious, chest rising and falling minutely with laboured breaths that seemed to take up all his effort. His cheeks were blotchy red but he was pale as a sheet, lips white and trembling. His hair was damp with sweat and matted to his forehead in a tangled mess.

“What’s going on?” Ralathor asked the Hootsman, his voice measured and calm. He could not betray the sudden burst of anxiety in his chest from seeing Angus like this, so vulnerable, so hurt. It was strange to realize, that after centuries of loneliness, he was close enough to someone to be this worried about them in a second.

“I think he’s sick,” the Hootsman replied.

“Everything was fine, and then he just got a dizzy spell out of the blue. Next thing I know he’s fainting into my arms, burning up like hellfire.”

“We need to get him to medical right now,” Ralathor said. He leaned down to help up the Hootsman, and together they managed to pull Angus upright and support his weight. Both of them possessed nearly superhuman strength, but Angus was heavier like this, clad in his armour and barely more than deadweight. The Hootsman grabbed his axe and Ralathor the hammer, and they made their way to the sickbay of the submarine.

After the first assessments, the diagnosis appeared to be a severe case of the flu. All the symptoms matched. After they had managed to strip the prince out of his armour, his full body broke out in shivers – he was sporting an alarmingly high fever. Only a few minutes after their arrival, Angus was already occupying a hospital bed, hooked up to fluids and an intravenous dose of antipyretics. This was the most that could be done, close monitoring and medicating until the fever would finally break – or until something got worse and they knew they would have to adjust their treatment. Blood was drawn for samples in hopes of figuring out more, the few drops of the red liquid lingering on the small pierced wound standing out starkly against the unnaturally pale skin.

Ralathor paced by the foot of Angus’ bed. He was restless, a gut feeling not allowing him to relax even though Angus was now in the best hands. There was a dark aura around the prince, like he had been influenced by magic. Angus’ energy was a blinding, golden glow, emanating warmth and light. That light was faint and pale now, as though it were hidden behind a thick veil.

“He’s going to be okay,” the Hootsman said quietly, gently clasping a hand on Ralathor’s shoulder. Ralathor nodded, deep in thought. He barely even registered the Hootsman leaving, only noticed his absence when he looked up a few minutes later.

Ralathor thought about the work he had abandoned. It would have to be done, but it wasn’t exactly urgent. The ship was just fine. He looked down at Angus. The young prince looked jarringly small and frail, tucked into white sheets as he was. Ralathor felt a twist in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling that told him to stay, to take a seat and wait for the prince to wake up. He would probably appreciate someone being there for him.

So he pulled up a chair next to the bed, and settled in for a long wait.

* * *

The fever did not break. Ralathor kept vigil by Angus’ bedside for more than thirty hours, and the beep of the machines and the drip of the infusions did not cease. Angus’ fever was climbing higher, if anything, and after the first twenty-four hours, it wasn’t only in Ralathor’s eyes that he appeared weak and fragile.

“He’s wasting away,” the Hootsman remarked grimly.

“Look at the hollows of his cheeks. He looks like a fucking skull. This isn’t natural.”

Ralathor knew he was right. As much as he wished it weren’t true, the mysterious illness was quite literally eating away at Angus. In barely more than a day, he had turned into barely more than a skeleton. It was, at first, only evident by the circles under his eyes and the accent of his cheekbones, but soon Ralathor could see it in his fingers, now thin and bony, and when the medic came to their call to examine him, Ralathor had recoiled from the sight of his ribs showing through his skin.

“I don’t know what we should do,” Ralathor admitted quietly, defeat in his voice.

“He’s not responding to treatment. He just keeps getting worse.”

He looked at the Hootsman, maybe for reassurance that it would be okay, maybe for a solemn nod and a silent admittance of what they both feared the most. He found neither. The Hootsman stroked his beard, eyebrows drawn together as he thought to himself.

“What if,” he started, “can you use your magic to figure out what’s wrong with him?”

“I can try,” Ralathor muttered, “but it’s not really made for that. I don’t know if I would be able to tell exactly.”

“It’s still a start,” the Hootsman encouraged him, and Ralathor had to agree that he was right.

He stepped to Angus’ bedside with a sigh and reached out to touch his hand to the prince’s forehead. He was still burning up, his skin scalding to the touch, and Ralathor swallowed against the ball of anxiety in his throat.

Carefully he reached out with his magic, visualizing the light blue tendrils of it wrapping themselves around the life force of the young prince, carefully prodding to take a look inside. Ralathor willed himself to keep going despite the uncertainty that Angus would even be able to take it, weakened as he was, and with a final little push, he managed to gain insight to the prince’s soul.

There was darkness. A human soul would usually be a swirling array of colours and emotions, snippets of sounds and halfway cut-off words; a concentration of their essence, of the energy that made them unique. Angus’ soul was a bottomless pit, a void, only his own sharp breaths echoing eternally in it. It was suffocating Ralathor, the hopelessness and the chaos of it blinding him for a second.

He pulled his hand away from Angus with a gasp and staggered backwards, legs suddenly weak and unsure. The hand he had touched Angus with was trembling, minute tremors twitching his fingers as he stared down at it with an empty gaze. He looked up at the Hootsman, all of his hope gone with his realization.

“I know what this is.”

* * *

It had been centuries since the last time Ralathor had seen it, but the memories still lived vividly in his mind. He could still remember that same chaos in the second Angus McFife’s soul as the old man choked on his own blood; that same darkness snuffing out the fifth Angus McFife’s life before his twentieth birthday as his body succumbed to a deadly plague. He remembered an infant, a babe barely one week of age with pitch-black eyes going still in his arms, so small, so unfairly young.

He had failed to save either of them. He had failed the McFifes over and over again throughout their lives, had watched many of them fall ill overnight and waste away just like this one (his one) was right now. He had seen their souls fade away into nothingness; their body give in and waste away, their resolve, their heroic spirit fall to shreds as they came undone.

He had never even come close to saving any of them.

The Hootsman could tell that there was no hope from the look on Ralathor’s face. They could keep treating the fever, but Angus’ body would soon reach its limits. Humans, as Ralathor kept realizing it, were endlessly fragile. Their lives were short and that was what made them so special, their lives a momentary shine of light on the night sky before it went dark again. Ralathor had promised himself not to grow attached to humans aeons ago, vowing to spare himself from the pain that losing them would mean. He could not, would not carry all that hurt with him for the rest of his life.

He had not had that choice with Angus. Angus had come to him when the Earth was crumbling under their feet and the universe was frayed and torn at the edges of reality. He had gotten caught up in a new threat, a new quest each day, and he found himself attached to the prince before he could even realize it. He had not even considered how easily that could all end, how fragile Angus still was despite his strength.

And now – it was over. There was nothing he could do, nothing he had not tried countless times before. All they could do was make Angus as comfortable as possible and say their goodbyes.

“Can I have some time with him?” the Hootsman asked, “alone.”

“Of course,” Ralathor replied quietly. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and squeezed the Hootsman’s shoulder, a quiet show of support. He knew how close the Hootsman was with Angus. He knew how difficult goodbyes were. He would give them plenty of time.

Before he exited the sickbay, he looked back for a second. Just in time to see the Hootsman’s shoulders tremble as he stood there, rooted in place at the foot of Angus’ bed.

* * *

Ralathor had no idea where he was going. He just let his feet take him wherever, eyes fixed on the uniform metal panels of the hallways winding deeper and deeper into the body of the Hootsforce. He was lost in his thoughts, darkness swirling in his mind as he spiralled into it deeper and deeper.

He was not having a panic attack. He was not capable of having one. It was more like pre-emptive grief, an overwhelming rush of emotion as the realization that Angus would be no more in a matter of hours truly hit him for the first time. It would take time to adjust. He had to think about the hammer – it didn’t seem right to keep it after Angus was gone, but he wasn’t sure burying an ancient artefact was wise. How would they even bury Angus? Where? This realm wasn’t his home and his true home was long gone, destroyed and locked away in another reality. Where could they lay him to rest?

For a moment, Ralathor was consumed by an urge to unleash his power, lash out and destroy everything in sight. Was there a point to this if he could not save the one whose life he had been trusted with? He had sworn to protect Angus McFife when he was barely two days old. He could still remember looking at the newborn and thinking about the great things he would accomplish. And he had failed! He had allowed himself to let himself go, to bask in the glory of their victory, and he had forgotten that his duty was, first and foremost, to protect Angus. And now he was to die, his life cut short by a cruel force beyond Ralathor’s understanding.

He clenched his fists in an attempt to keep himself under control, and stopped walking for a moment. He needed to breathe, to regain his control. He could not fall apart, not now, not ever. He would just have to live with this just like he had learned to live with all the other deaths before this. He looked around to make sense of his whereabouts.

He had wandered deeper into the maze-like hallways of the submarine than he had imagined. He was on one of the lower levels, in fact… He knew exactly where he was. The door he was standing right in front of was locked by none other than his own magic. He huffed out an almost amused breath – he had subconsciously come to visit a prisoner.

Ralathor thought about turning around and finding his way back to the more frequented part of the submarine: his office, or maybe even his cabin where he could sit and stare blankly ahead without anyone asking him if he was alright, ripping him from his thoughts. But something deep inside him told him that he should stay, he should open that door and pay the prisoner a visit. In that moment, Ralathor did not care for being alone. He wanted the opposite of it. Someone who could be silent company, understanding and sympathetic when he needed it. And who else was better at that than the man he had once considered his best friend, his kin?

The magical lock slipped from the door with a small twitch of his fingers, and he was punching in the entry code even before he could consciously recall it. The door slid open with a soft sound and Ralathor swallowed nervously before stepping inside.

“I’m not in the mood for more questioning,” Zargothrax glowered at him immediately upon entry. He was sitting at his desk, idly playing with a paper towel. A small flash of green folded it into a perfectly realistic rose, another tore it into tiny shreds, a third pieced it back together. Over and over and over again. That was the most he could do with what little magic Ralathor had left him with, the rest of it locked by the thin cuffs around each of his wrists, placed there with Ralathor’s own magic. He looked bored – he probably was. Zargothrax was not the sort of man who did well in captivity, left alone with his thoughts, allowing them to fester freely in his mind.

He looked tired. His hair was pulled back into a lazy bun, small strands slipping out of it and framing his face, and there were deep circles under his eyes. He wasn’t a good sleeper and Ralathor knew it, but then, neither was he. Maybe they had learned it from each other. Maybe both of them had too much guilt weighing down their souls to be able to rest.

“I’m not here for questions,” Ralathor replied quietly. He was hovering awkwardly in the doorway, eyeing his once-best friend and the empty seat seemingly waiting for him opposite of him.

“What do you want then?”

Zargothrax’ tone was not kind. Of course, Ralathor did not expect it to be.

“May I sit?”

“Could I stop you?” Zargothrax asked in return, making a face at Ralathor. With a sigh, he sat down anyway. Zargothrax was right. He was a prisoner, and Ralathor was his warden. He was free to do as he pleased. The courtesy of asking was half habit, half politesse to preserve the illusion of choice.

“Angus McFife is going to die,” Ralathor said after a few seconds of silence.

He was careful to keep his voice unwavering and devoid of emotion, his eyes fixed on the wall somewhere behind Zargothrax’ shoulder. Still, he saw the surprised frown and the confusion on Zargothrax’ face.

“How come?” he asked, and Ralathor was so shocked by it, the innocent, honest curiosity in his voice. There was no malicious intent behind the question, just – and Ralathor could barely believe it – a tentative sort of sympathy.

“He’s fallen ill,” Ralathor started, “like many of his ancestors before him. It’s corrupting his soul and eating away at his body. It comes from magic – but it’s nothing I could ever dream to heal. I couldn’t before, I won’t be able to now.”

He did not dare to look Zargothrax in the eyes. He was not ready to see a mockery of his skills, or worse, pity in those dark eyes. He instead fixed his eyes on Zargothrax’ hands, on the faint glimmer of green and the paper towel falling apart and coming back together again. No magic he had ever known was capable of such a thing. Their magic had rules: to preserve the natural order of things. Ralathor could heal, to an extent, speed up the process of broken bones stitching themselves together again, or condense the course of a fever into a few seconds. But something that was once destroyed – over that fatal brink of decay from which nothing could bring it back from – he had no power over. He could not heal Angus if his soul was already beyond saving.

But Zargothrax was operating a different magic. His magic had its source in chaos, not order, and because of that the laws of nature hardly applied to him. Zargothrax had raised the dead, he had reversed and twisted the natural order of things so many times and he still had power over them. Maybe, if anyone, Zargothrax could help.

When he looked up, he could tell that Zargothrax was thinking of the same thing. His eyes were narrowed, calculating. Ralathor knew that he was weighing his options, considering his being a prisoner and then Angus as his destined nemesis and actually helping him. Ralathor did not speak, but silently prayed to gods he knew for a fact did not exist that Zargothrax would make the decision he needed him to make.

“Take me to him,” Zargothrax asked finally.

“I don’t know if I could help but – I want to see him.”

Ralathor nodded and stood, waited for Zargothrax to do the same. Together they exited the room and made their way to the sickbay in silence. Ralathor was careful not to get his hopes up, but he couldn’t help but feel the smallest bit reassured by the presence of the other wizard.

When they got there, the Hootsman was still sitting next to Angus’ bed. He looked perfectly composed, idly twisting his dagger between his fingers as he watched the minute movements of Angus’ hands, the fluttering of his eyelids. When he heard the approaching footsteps he looked up, face immediately contorting into a scowl.

“Why is he here?” he snarled, pointing his dagger at Zargothrax.

The wizard raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m here to help,” he said, and the Hootsman turned to Ralathor for confirmation. Ralathor nodded solemnly, and accepted the glare thrown his way – the Hootsman had every right to be distrustful. Hell, Ralathor himself wasn’t certain if he could trust Zargothrax. But he was their best shot.

Zargothrax held his hands out to Ralathor, and Ralathor, all the while feeling like he was making a mistake, undid his cuffs with careful movements. Zargothrax sighed contently and wiggled his fingers, the green tendrils of his magic twisting around them like snakes. He seemed revitalized by it, like his saturation had been turned up with thirty percent. His hair was shinier, richer in colour, the circles faded from beneath his eyes – the eyes that were glowing with a faint green spark.

Zargothrax stepped to Angus’ bedside, and with the same motion as Ralathor’s, placed a hand on the prince’s forehead.

Ralathor watched as the lines appeared between Zargothrax’ eyebrows, as his mouth tightened into a thin line from exertion. Ralathor knew exactly what he was seeing, what he was feeling at the moment. He shuddered ever so slightly, every atom of his body rejecting that terrible darkness that had become of Angus’ soul.

After maybe two minutes, Zargothrax finally pulled away. When his eyes met Ralathor’s, there was no good news in them.

“I know the source of the illness,” Zargothrax offered, his voice strangely hollow.

“It’s me.”

* * *

Ralathor had barely registered the words before everything erupted into chaos. The Hootsman jumped from his seat with a cry of _you bastard,_ dagger still brandished in one hand. Zargothrax pulled a shield of green magic around himself, bracing himself for the attack with a ball of pure energy slowly materializing in his hand. Ralathor jumped into motion, throwing himself between the other two.

“Stop!” he bellowed, throwing an arm out in each their directions.

They did. Both of them lowered their weapons, looking at Ralathor curiously. He wasn’t one to raise his voice for any reason, and they both knew it. It had been shocking enough that they stopped, which was Ralathor’s time to speak.

“What do you mean you’re the source?” he asked Zargothrax, fury slowly seeping into his words.

“Did you place this curse on him?”

“It’s not a curse,” Zargothrax shook his head, “and it was not intentional either. This is my magic, to the same extent as an apple tree can call a stray seed its own. I had not cast it purposely and I was not even aware it had taken residence in the McFifes.”

“Elaborate,” the Hootsman growled, still pointing his dagger at Zargothrax.

“This is a trace residue of my magic from my fight with the first Angus McFife,” Zargothrax started to explain, “he was careless in his defence against my magic and a small shard of it had lodged itself inside his soul. It moves onto the next descendant in line like a faithful little parasite. Usually, it’s slow in its corruption and sometimes even stays dormant until its host dies of old age. Other times, though, the process is much faster. If the soul is weaker.”

Ralathor thought about the unnamed infant he had held in his final moments – he had been born early, weak and sickly. He thought about the second Angus McFife losing his wife and with her, most of himself, he thought about the fifth and the stormy clouds that had settled over his troubled psyche. Weak souls, all of them. But not Angus. Not this Angus, the one who lost everything and still kept fighting, the one who never gave up, never backed off, and was ready to sacrifice himself to save the world in the end.

And that was it, wasn’t it. The Knife of Evil. The Hootsman had managed to save Angus at the last moment and Ralathor had healed him, had carved out the rot of his soul with careful hands, leaving him weakened but still himself. And that was all it took for that parasitic shard of magic to begin to fester in that fresh wound.

“Can you heal him?” Ralathor asked the inevitable question. The Hootsman next to him sheathed his dagger and came to stand next to him. He was still eyeing Zargothrax suspiciously, but he wasn’t openly hostile. He trusted Ralathor to make sensible decisions – and as much as the Hootsman was a god, as long as Ralathor was commander on this ship, his word was final.

“I think so,” Zargothrax nodded.

“Will you?”

Zargothrax fell silent. Ralathor did not know what to expect – Zargothrax had no clear reason to do something that would benefit Angus or any of them really. But then he was still a prisoner, his free will was broken in half already. Still, Ralathor could not force him to use his magic.

He waited, counting the seconds in his head, refusing to look at Angus, to take in how much worse he had gotten in the hour he had been gone. This was life and death – and Zargothrax was the one balancing the scales. He could not guess the outcome.

“Fine,” Zargothrax huffed finally, “I will.”

“Thank you,” Ralathor said, the words tumbling out of his mouth on the back of a sigh. Relief washed over him, his hope returning, weak as it was. The Hootsman seemed equally as elated as Ralathor felt, a smile hiding underneath his beard.

“I will need your help, though,” Zargothrax added, “if I join our magic, we’ll be stronger. We can succeed.”

“Of course,” Ralathor nodded, trusting Zargothrax on muscle memory, his gut still hardwired to go along with his every plan. He scolded himself for being so hasty but his point was still the same – he was definitely ready to help in any way he could.

Zargothrax nodded and swallowed nervously. Ralathor could see the uncertainty in his eyes. He would be playing with powers beyond his limit, the doubled magic too much for one wizard to handle, and he was up against a small shard of ancient energy that had a millennium to lodge itself comfortable into Angus’ soul. It was not going to be easy. It was hardly feasible. But they would try.

Zargothrax laid a hand on Angus’ forehead, and reached the other out to Ralathor. Ralathor took it with a shuddering breath, wondering if he was making a grave mistake.

His world plunged into darkness the moment their skin touched. He could recognize it now – he was seeing the void that had become of Angus’ soul. He wanted to step away, recoil and escape, the primal chaos of it so viscerally alien to the order he knew and was, in some way, made of.

He felt a tug on his soul – after all these years, he could still recognize the way Zargothrax’ magic felt – and carefully, tentatively, he allowed his magic to follow it, giving up his control over the swirl of energy and letting Zargothrax leech it away, entwine it with his own. The blue and green slowly twisted together, their light becoming stronger with each second. He shut his mind’s eye against it when it became too bright to bear, but he could still feel, their strength growing, the darkness receding.

There, deep in the middle of it, he could feel the source of it all, so infinitely small, yet so powerful. Ralathor felt his magic cry for him, reeling back from the pure chaos of it, and he willed it to stay, to obey Zargothrax as he carefully dug into the void around the shard, pulling out its roots and closing the wounds, slowly separating it from Angus’ soul. By the time he was done, the shard was lying in a cradle of magic, slowly melting away as it recognized its source and returned to it.

Zargothrax slowly untwisted them, separating green and blue, and Ralathor pulled his magic back into the warm embrace of his soul with a relieved sigh. It was alright. It was still alright. He slowly opened his eyes, afraid of what he was about to find.

It wasn’t perfect. The colours were muted and the sounds were quieter, like they came from a distance. It was weak and it was injured and slowly, very slowly healing, but it was the soul Ralathor knew. The chaos, the darkness, the magic was gone. Angus was whole again.

The world swam back into focus as Zargothrax let his hand go. He blinked a couple times and focused just in time to see Zargothrax’ legs give out underneath him. Ralathor caught him and lowered him into a chair, checking to see if he was alright.

“I’m just tired,” Zargothrax muttered, “I’m never doing a favour for you, ever again.”

“Thank you,” Ralathor replied earnestly, brimming with happiness. They had succeeded. Angus was going to recover!

Zargothrax held out his wrists to Ralathor. When Ralathor raised an eyebrow, he laughed weakly.

“I’m still your prisoner. Shouldn’t you cuff me?”

“Right,” Ralathor sighed, “of course. Come.”

He clasped the cuffs back in place on Zargothrax’ wrists, and together they made their way back to Zargothrax’ room.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did,” Ralathor said quietly, not meeting Zargothrax’ eyes. It was strange to thank him and then throw him back into his cell.

“Then don’t,” Zargothrax shrugged, “I repaid a life debt. You spared mine – I saved his. Now we’re even.”

Ralathor shook his head. He could not stop thinking about the death and destruction in Zargothrax’ wake.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he said, and Zargothrax laughed bitterly.

“I’m still your prisoner, aren’t I?” he asked, “and we both know I’m not the only one with the blood of innocents on my hands.”

And with that, he disappeared into his room. For minutes after the door closed, Ralathor stood there motionlessly, until he finally placed the locking spell back on the door and left with a surprisingly heavy heart.

* * *

Angus woke up ten hours later. Both Ralathor and the Hootsman had stayed at his bedside for that time, only leaving for a few minutes and never at the same time. They had watched anxiously as Angus’ fever started to go down, as the hollows of his cheeks started to fill out again. He was slowly being brought back to life from the brink of death – it had truly worked.

Ralathor did not even register the first confused blinks, almost certain that he had imagined it, but then Angus croaked a weak little _where am I?_ and suddenly everything was right again. The Hootsman had hugged the living hell out of Angus – despite Ralathor’s protests to be careful, and he himself gave him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder.

“Am I in medical?” Angus asked, visibly confused, “What’s going on?”

Ralathor sighed. Of course Angus did not remember it all. How could he, really, after spending most of the last two days passed out, floating untethered between life and death. He knew they would have to tell him at some point, let him know the full truth and the help he had gotten from Zargothrax and just how close he had come to death. But not today. Ralathor was not finely tuned to the emotional nuances of men, but he knew cruelty. And assaulting the young prince with such heavy topics was cruel. They would enjoy having him back again, for now.

Angus would heal and regain his strength and get out of that bed, and when that was done and his soul was back to its brilliant colours, then Ralathor would sit him down and explain the circumstances of his illness. For now, he settled on _just a little flu, kid, but you had us scared for a moment_ , and smiled to hide the exhaustion in his voice. It was easy to forget about everything just from hearing Angus laugh, and so he allowed himself to do just that, let the sounds of joy wash over him and relieve him from his pain for a few fleeting moments.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! comments and kudos are always welcome, and if you feel like it, hit me up on social media or check out my other works: [ao3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinal__sin) | [tumblr](https://cardinalxsin.tumblr.com/) | [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/cardinalxsin/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/cardinalxsin)


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